


"i like your laugh."

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [38]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Lesbian Character, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Holidays, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: A possible first chapter of the ninth book.Canon EraWritten for the thirty-eighth prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/Hazel Wong, Amina El Maghrabi/Daisy Wells, Daisy Wells & Hazel Wong
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Kudos: 30





	"i like your laugh."

We travelled from school to London, then from Waterloo to the chilling English coast, and from Southampton to Egypt.

We left Deepdean elated by the spirit of the Christmas, eating sandwiches wrapped in brown paper and mince pies sprinkled with icing sugar that was sickly and strung between our lips like glue when we spoke. Daisy looked very grown-up in a lovely blue travelling coat and the beautiful red hat that Aunt Lucy gave her last year in Cambridge. Since we met each other, our lives have changed beyond belief. Two years ago, I spent Christmas curled on one of the ratty old sofas at Fallingford. For two weeks, I licked whipped cream from around my lips that were the remnants of the hundreds of hot chocolates I drank. I read mystery novels with Daisy curled into my side and ate thousands of sugary treats. In the evenings, we listened to music and watched Bertie pen endless letters to his best friend (Stephen Bampton) that he would gasp and snatch away whenever we passed near him. Last year, I was taking in the snowy ambience of Cambridge with Daisy by my side and holding my freezing cold hand, rocketing up the winding staircases and down the narrow and cobbled streets.

This year, we walked from Deepdean arm-in-arm and bursting at the seams with excitement, Amina El Maghrabi skipping along beside us and talking a mile a minute about the exciting parts of her home in Cairo which we absolutely must see.

That was when I began to notice that Daisy was acting odd. I had noticed it all term, but this was reaching new heights: Miss Hopkins heights, King Henry heights, Martia Torerra heights, bias in an investigation heights… _crush_ heights.

I was sure that I was projecting my own wishes for a reciprocated crush onto Daisy and Amina because it could not possibly be true. It could not be true because I did not want to imagine Daisy not needing me anymore.

When we bustled off the train and into the swirling smoke and buffeting pistons of the platform, I felt as if I should never want to travel again. Though I was unsteady on my feet, Daisy grabbed my hand, holding it fast in her iron grip. With her purposeful march, Daisy heaved us from the crowd of commuters and into the bustling crowd of waiting businessmen, students, tourists and teenagers waiting for their trains or for their friends and family. Her hand still laced with my own, Daisy flitted her eyes about before crying, “View-halloo!” and taking off like a shot after whatever caught her eye. As she raced after us, Amina laughed aloud.

After only a moment, we stopped in front of the enormous screens that display the time of a train leaving, and it was then that I noticed the two boys standing a little way away from us. Alexander, tall, blond, and carelessly crumpled, and George, stocky, dark, and perfectly turned-out.

“Detectives!” cried Daisy, and the two of them turned around.

Careful not to be too fast or too slow, I walked towards them with Daisy and Amina. Once we were in front of them, Alexander said, “Hazel!” and swept me into a big and cheerful hug. It filled my nose with the oddly appealing but boyish smell that Alexander has, and I sternly told myself that I ought not to enjoy being pressed against his chest because he does not like me like that.

When he released me — flushed, panting, and haltingly embarrassed in a way that made it difficult for me to speak — George touched my shoulder. “Hello, Hazel dear,” he said, with his big and dark eyes sparkling at me kindly. I was expecting him to offer a handshake, but he pulled me in around my shoulders and gave me a firm and comfortable hug. If I had an older brother, I would dearly like it to be George.

Once I stepped back, Alexander shook Daisy’s hand, while George took her hands and kissed her knuckles in his charming display of ironic gentleman-like behaviour. It is his subtle way of saying that, if we were in a book, he and Daisy would be a happily-ever-after. A surefire couple, an obvious idea, a stereotypical plot device. Instead, they are genii that understand each other in a way that is more intellectual than Daisy and I, yet still clear in the knowing looks they share in the seconds that bridge the gap between George and Daisy understanding something, and Alexander and I catching on.

I noticed something else in that short moment: Alexander did not sparkle at Daisy the way he used to. A feeling like a firework burst low in my chest and I was enormously glad.

“Lovely to see you,” George said, twinkling up at Daisy in their genius way. “And you are Amina, I assume?”

Rather flustered, Amina curtseyed at them and said, “Oh! Yes; Amina El Maghrabi.”

Daisy and I shared a look of amusement at her reaction to meeting our rather odd friends, and she reached out to take my hand and squeeze it, linking our arms together.

Suppressing an obvious burst of laughter, George offered out his hand. “George Mukherjee at your service, Miss Maghrabi.”

“Alexander Arcady,” he introduced in his rolling American accent as he offered out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Amina looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment. “You’re American!”

With a deep laugh — it jolts me; his voice has dropped yet again — he told her, “Indeed! That makes three of us sent from elsewhere for education in England.”

Brow furrowed, her eyes flitted over me, past Daisy, and she said to George, “What about you?”

“Born and bred in London.”

She clasped her hands over her mouth. “Oh! I’m so sorry!”

“We’ve all made that mistake,” I said, hoping to ease Amina’s awkwardness.

Daisy glanced up at the clock. “We have heaps of time until our train, it’s almost time for bunbreak, and I’m starving,” she announced. “Who’s for tea?”

* * *

Elated by the promise of tea, we sought the first tearoom in Waterloo station that we could find. With a whisper to me that she didn’t want Amina to feel excluded, Daisy linked arms with Amina and began to walk with her. I was proud of Daisy: she was being thoughtful.

I walked in front of the boys and, though it was terribly rude, I turned into what they spoke about.

“Just ask Amina for her address!” Alexander said.

“It’s not that important, Alex.”

“You want to go an entire holiday without speaking to him?”

“I don’t!”

“Then write to him!”

“No!”

Alexander barked a laugh. “You are impossible, George.”

“Shut it, Hastings.”

“Why don’t you want to write to him?”

With an irritated sigh, George said, “All… all this will doubtless stop bothering me.”

“You can’t stop all of this, George. It doesn’t work that way.”

“I will make it work that way!”

“George—”

“No!”

I couldn’t resist: I turned around. “Are you okay? What on earth is going on?”

I did not see what I expected to. Alexander looked concerned as opposed to furious, and George looked distraught as opposed to glowering.

“It’s…” George gulped.

“Hey…” Alexander said in an arrestingly caring tone, setting a hand on George’s shoulders. “We’re alright, Hazel. Promise.”

I nodded and hurried into the tearoom.

* * *

We took our seats around a rectangular table, Alexander on one side of me and Daisy on the other. Amina was at the end of the table and Alexander was opposite me, with George beside him. “What are we ordering?” Amina asked, turning to Daisy with the question directed at the entire group.

“A selection of cakes,” I suggested, pointing to it on the menu.

“Sandwiches,” Daisy added, turning to me and smiling in our special and private way.

“Hot chocolate or tea?” Alexander asked.

“Make sure to request no meat,” George said.

Casting my eyes over the group, I realised that Daisy and the Junior Pinkertons are my family. We can carry off each other’s thoughts while Daisy and I complete each other’s sentences. At the same time, I noticed Amina shifting at the head of the table awkwardly.

“Amina,” I asked, leaning forward with a purpose to engage her, “do you have any specific things that you need to eat?”

“No, Hazel. Thank you,” she said, shaking her head and smiling at me in a way that said ‘thank you’. “George, why do you not eat meat?”

“Hindu,” he said in the plainest and ordinary tone, “you know? I can’t eat meat.”

With a nod of understanding, she replied, “Oh! That makes sense. Do you go to chapel?”

Amina is open but in a less arrestingly pointed way than Daisy, and a less obnoxious way than Alexander. All her questions are kind and well-meaning, with an open curiosity that means that she can get away with asking anything.

“No,” George said with a graceful shake of his head. “They used to beat me for it until my father wrote a strongly-worded letter to make them stop.”

“‘Used to’,” Alexander echoed, complete with sarcastic air quotes.

“Alright, I’ll bite: they occasionally do it now, when they’re in a bad mood.”

We all gaped in astonishment but were distracted by Alexander chuckling. “Well… there is what you did last Sunday.”

“What did you do?” Daisy asked, leaning forward with curiosity.

“I was having a shitty day and Twitting decided to beat me so I…” He buried his head in his hands. “Oh, Alex, you tell them.”

“He kneed our headmaster in the balls.”

Myself, Daisy, and Amina dissolved into stitches of laughter, the boys soon following as our joy dragged them in. When we had all calmed down and finished gasping for air, Alexander looked at me and said, “ **I like your laugh** , Hazel.”


End file.
